


And at once I knew (I was not magnificent)

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU from Series 3, Allusions to infidelity, Angst, Bullying, Drugs, F/M, Fingering, I will add more as soon as I remember them, Masturbation, Mentions of Suicide, Murder, Oral Sex, Sherlock being a douche, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Violence, but no spoilers I don't think at least, coarse language, induced vomiting, mentions of rehab, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts, like with many things in Molly Hooper’s life, bound to a tragedy waiting to unfold, with a fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

It starts, with a fall.

* * *

_The gravel is hard underneath her hands, the rocks scraping her palms. She jolts, teeth clanging together, and all she can taste in her mouth is the burst of hot blood, as pain radiates through her body. Tears come, unbidden to her eyes and she sniffles, clenching her jaw and counting to ten. She doesn’t want to cry. (“There’s my strong girl,” she can hear her father’s voice in her ear, “who’s my strong girl?”_ Not me _, she wants to answer._ Not me _.)_

_They are throwing names and taunts at her, (“Mousy Molly,” “Little Miss Perfect”) and others that etch their way onto the walls of her mind, laughing at her. They don’t let her move, every time she sucks up a bit of courage to get up, she’s pushed down again. More gravel biting into her palms and anger (shame, humiliation) flooding her._

_She turns her head and looks at Tom. Tom, with his lanky body, black hair, dark eyes and charming grin. Tom, who smiles at her and asks for her help in Math. Tom, who likes reading, Tom, who likes football (even if he does support Chelsea), Tom, who talks to her and walks with her. Tom, whose friends don’t like her, don’t like talking to her, don’t like walking with her, don’t want her help in Math. Tom, who is doing nothing, but standing there, eyes sad and mouth quivering with restrained…something (anger? Shame? Humiliation? Molly thinks any emotion would be better than no emotion. Any action, whether against or with her, would be better than standing there like a statue, so afraid of what his friends will think of him.)_

_“Are you gonna cry to your mum, now?” A girl to her right asks her._

_Molly’s blood runs cold and she drops her head. She doesn’t remember much of her mum. Just from photos that her dad shows her. She looks like her. She has her nose, eyes, and hair, but her chin is from her dad. Her dad always tells her that her mum was strong and kind and so full of love. He tells her that she used to sweep her in her arms and kiss her forehead whenever Molly would cry or fuss. He tells her that her mum used to be so full of life, so energetic, so lovely…until the life that she loved so much, took her away from everything she loved and held dear. (“Mr. Hooper? I’m Officer Callahan, would you mind if I come in?)_

_All Molly remembers of her mum, is her dad’s reaction to her death. Stoic and calm as he helped her pull on her jacket and hat, his eyes watering but never shedding any tears. It isn’t until she sneaks away from the Officer, charged with keeping an eye on her and wanders down the hall, following the same steps her father took and standing up on her toes, small fingers clasping the windowsill, eyes peering through the glass, does she see her father, body draped over another, arms wrapped around her waist and Molly frowns when she hears her father’s sobs through the window and walls. She narrows her eyes, trying to get a better look and she staggers back, gasping, heart pounding when she sees familiar brown hair, nose (her eyes would be familiar if she would open them,_ mummy, open your eyes, please mummy, open your eyes _) and it isn’t until her father’s head whips up and meets her eyes that she realizes she’s saying this aloud._

_Her father comes out and scoops her up, “dad, why isn’t mummy, moving? Why isn’t mummy opening her eyes? Just tell her to open her eyes.”_

_“I’ve tried.” He whispers, “I’ve tried, darling.”_

_(And even though, she’s young, even though, she doesn’t quite understand why this is happening, she cries anyways, because there is a piece of her, a large piece, that is missing.)_

_She is taken out of her memory by yells and shouts of “detention!” “The lot of you! Detention!” and then by soft hands, clasping her shoulders and helping her stand, “let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”_

_She nods and allows the teacher to lead her away. She is put in the Nurse’s room, while the Nurse cleans her wounds and gives her too many smiles. She hears her dad, before she sees him and smells the faint scent of his sandalwood cologne before she feels his arms wrap around her. “Let’s go home, Molly.”_

_When her father asks her what happened, Molly tells him the truth. (“There was this boy and he’s my friend…or at least, I thought he was and…”) by the end, she’s sobbing, partially from the pain in her palms, but mostly from the pain in her chest._

_“Oh, Molly.” Her dad sighs, giving her a lopsided smile, “boys…boys are dumb.” He gives her a more genuine smile when she lets out a snort of laughter, “no, really, they are.” His thumb comes up and wipes away her loose tears, “and that’s why, when you do decide to give your heart away, which let me tell, better not be until a bloody long time, he should be special. Almost, but not quite, as special as you are. You listening Molly? Because there will be no one as special as you are.”_

_(Molly never listens very well.)_

* * *

“Molly?” There is a voice, deep, baritone and sad, calling her name. “Molly? Are you listening to me?” There is a sense of annoyance and a little bit of urgency, with resignation in his voice.

 

Molly blinks and nods, her mind clearing from long forgotten memories. She rubs her eyes and stares at Sherlock, his eyes (blue-green and haunting, they haunt her every move, her every breath) boring into her, “Yes.” She says, her voice raspy from lack of talking, or from nerves, she thinks it’s nerves, “I’m listening. I know…I know what to do.”

 

He nods, a small swift nod and walks back and forth in a line, solid and straight.

 

She can see his mind firing off at a rapid pace, his body trying to keep up with what is going to happen. With what will happen. She can tell that he’s determining the odds of succeeding and of failing.

 

She walks towards him, her legs full of pins and needles from lack of use. She places her hand on his forearm and she can feel his lean muscles underneath his shirt. She takes in a shaky breath, her own mind buzzing with possibilities as she gives him an encouraging smile. “This will work. Trust me.” ( _You’re wrong you know. You do count. You’ve always counted. And I’ve always trusted you.)_ And then realizing that her hand is still on his forearm and that she can feel his blood pumping underneath her palm and that she is in his personal space, she backs away, feeling the emptiness almost immediately. “Sorry…” she stammers, “I just…it was…” she takes a deep breath, “this will work.” She repeats. “It will.”

 

(Anything else will kill him and life without Sherlock Holmes…it’s just not an option.)

* * *

_The water is loud, drowning out the words that are flying from their mouths, shadowing laughter and all Molly can hear is the rhythmic beating of the water as it rushes down. She shuffles closer to the edge, mist spraying her and dampening her clothes. It looks intimidating and Molly can feel her heart speed up. She bites her lip and looks over at Mary, who is practically bouncing in her spot. As if feeling eyes on her, Mary turns her head and gives Molly a big grin. Molly can’t help but smile back._

_It was a spur of the moment trip to New Zealand that Mary thought up, after finishing their first year of Uni. (“To celebrate surviving first year and for not gaining the freshmen fifteen.”) And of course, on their last full day, Mary dragged her to the cliff-diving._

_Realistically, Molly knows it’s safe. Well…as safe as it can be. They had their requisite training that morning. Their tour guides well versed in the water and how to jump properly without breaking any bones or injuring herself. (Molly was already aware of it all, the human body is something that Molly knows like the back of her hand.)_

_She watches in a trance as person after person jumps, most of their screams either caught in their throat or drowned out by the thundering water._

_Mary goes before her, turning around and giving her hand a squeeze. “I’m so glad we did this.” She yells over the water and even then, it’s barely a whisper. She gives her a wicked smile, “see you at the bottom.” And then she jumps. Molly feels a start in her stomach as she looks over and sees Mary’s body falling and falling and making a small splash in the water below. Molly holds her breath, until she sees a familiar blonde head breaking the surface and barely hears her familiar voice let out squeals and shrieks from adrenaline._

_Molly takes hesitant steps towards her guide and he gives her an encouraging and sympathetic smile. “It’s always scary the first time.” He says, his voice accented and kind. “Want to know the secret?”_

_“Is it_ don’t look down _?” Molly tries joking, despite her increasing heart rate and the sense of anxiety._

_He lets out a small laugh. “Nah. It’s simpler than that. Embrace it. The fall, I mean and trust us.”_

_Molly nods and takes a deep breath, feet leading her the edge. She takes a look back at the guide and then at the other people behind her, who are cheering her on, excitement overcoming her and she turns around, facing the edge and jumps off._

_She doesn’t scream, finds she can’t and closes her eyes. She feels her heart drop down to her stomach, she feels time suspend as she’s in the air, making her way down and her mind goes blissfully blank. It feels like the shortest, yet longest time in her life, until she finally hits the water and allows it to envelope her, before kicking herself back to the surface. She sputters out some water and steadies herself as she looks above her and lets out a smile. She turns her head and sees Mary, jumping up and down, hands waving and yelling with elation._

_Molly swims towards her and hefts herself out of water, lying on the grass, struggling to catch her breath. She looks at Mary and laughs, until the both of them are holding their sides and talking at the same time._

_“Again?” Mary asks, excitedly._

_Molly shakes her head. “No. No. One potentially suicidal jump is enough for me.”_

_She watches as Mary goes over to try and talk another guide to let her jump again and Molly lies back against the grass and stares at the bright blue sky, the brilliantly shining sun, the water drowning out all the other noise and she closes her eyes._

* * *

They’re standing in her office, the sun has been up for a few hours and London is bustling. Molly can hear people in the hospital and to everyone else; this is just another ordinary day. To everyone else, the significance of this day is not and most likely will not, be clear to them.

 

Molly looks at Sherlock and bites her lip. _Everyone else_ , she thinks, _will not fake their death today._

 

He looks at his watch once more and Molly shakes her head. “Once,” she starts, clearing her throat as her voice catches, “I went cliff-diving with my best friend, Mary.” She clasps her hands together and wrings them tightly, hoping that she can convey what she wants ( _needs_ ) to say to him. “It was in New Zealand and it was a spur of the moment thing, you know? It was to celebrate, yeah? Have you ever been to New Zealand? It’s beautiful. You should, if you haven’t-”

 

“Molly.” He rumbles.

 

She blinks and mentally slaps herself. “Right. I know. I just…we went cliff-diving and Mary. Mary…she’s fierce. She did it no problem. Me…I was hesitant. I mean…I knew the odds and I knew I was safe and it didn’t matter how many times I told myself that…there was always this…this feeling that I could…die. And then my guide…he told me…he said to embrace it and trust them and truthfully, I had no idea what he meant by that but when I was…when I jumped and just felt the air and felt my heart drop down to my stomach and felt like my blood was boiling and felt everything at once…I just…I let go. My mind…it went blank, just…empty and I…I…” She trails off, unable to finish what she was saying.

 

(Sometimes, _sometimes_ , Molly hates herself around Sherlock Holmes. Because all she wanted to do was give him some comfort. Give him some hope, that when he wakes up, even though the world will be different, he’ll still have _her_.)

 

She takes a deep breath and tries again, “I just mean…it’s okay to be afraid. Because sometimes, the biggest motivator is fear. The fall is…it’s just a fall. It’s what…it’s what comes after the fall that matters, yeah?”

 

There is silence between them and then he opens his mouth and a foot leaves the ground, stepping forward (stepping towards her) when his phone rings with a message and he’s back to his original position, as if the less of an inch he moved, didn’t happen (but Molly knows it did. She _knows_ it.) “It’s time.” He says.

 

Molly nods and watches as he puts on his Belstaff coat with confident yet stiff movements. He moves towards the door and turns his head before he leaves, giving her one last and swift nod and then he’s gone, in a swirl of black. Almost as if he wasn’t there (but Molly knows he was.)

 

Molly turns to the window and breathes deeply, bracing herself for the fall about to occur.

* * *

_“There’s…there’s this man.” Molly says, her cheeks burning up as she walks around her father’s bedside, taking her regular seat._

_Her father looks at her and smiles a bright smile that is so full of love that it lightens Molly’s heavy and rapidly beating heart. “Is he special?”_

_Molly pauses and nods slowly, mind memorizing everything he said in their first meeting, memorizing the way his eyes are a brilliant shade of blue-green. “Yeah. Yeah, dad. I really think he is.”_

* * *

Molly is standing at her window, staring at the John Watson’s form as he talks on the phone and hardly a minute passes when a blur of black whizzes past her window.

 

She can hear the screams from below. She can hear the sirens. She can hear everything and nothing; not even the reimagining of the thundering water in New Zealand is able to clear her mind.

 

She swallows deeply and pushes herself away from the window and as calmly as she can, as if nothing has happened (but it has, Molly knows it has), walks back down to the morgue.

 

She will not fail. She cannot fail. Not when Sherlock is counting on her. Trusting her.

 

( _You’re wrong you know. You do count. You’ve always counted. And I’ve always trusted you.)_

* * *

It starts, with a fall.

 


	2. Part two

She hears the commotion before she sees it (before she’s inevitably sucked into it). She’s in the supply room in the morgue, pretending to take inventory (she’s counting to ten and praying to a God she stopped believing in, that everything worked, that Sherlock _did_ put his trust in the right person) when Doctor Saunier comes barreling through the doors. “Molly?” She hears him shout, his voice echoing through the empty morgue.

 

She takes a deep breath, clutches the clipboard to her chest, hands gripping it so tightly, her skin stretches and pales across her knuckles. “What can I do for you…David? What’s wrong?”

 

Doctor Saunier’s face is as white as his hair. His eyes are sympathetic as he stares at her. “Oh, Molly. There’s been a jumper off Bart’s roof.”

 

Molly pretends to frown, her heart speeds up. “I don’t understand…” she trails off.

 

Doctor Saunier takes a step towards her and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It was Sherlock Holmes. Molly, Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

 

The thing is, it’s not hard for her to act realistic at hearing the news. For nearly a decade, Molly has watched families and loved ones come in and out of the morgue identifying dead family members and friends. She watches as their faces morph into disbelief, denial, guilt, anger all at once, only for the prevailing emotion to be grief. A sense of melancholy so strong, it almost suffocates her. She watches them break down into sobs, she watches as they plead (some of them looking at her, begging her to do something, anything, just _not this, please, not this_ , and Molly is helpless to do anything but stare stoically ahead and pretend to not be affected by their grief.) 

 

She remembers the day she got news of her dad’s death. She took the rest of the afternoon off and walked up to oncology, where the doctors and nurses gave her wide berth and whispered their condolences. She walked into the room and stared at her father’s lifeless body, the ghost of a smile on his face and Molly sat next to him, curtains drawn, hand over her mouth, silently weeping (she was never one for a show.) She collected herself half-hour later and gathered his belongings.

 

(It wasn’t until she got home, pictures of her dead and gone mother and father on every stand, does she start sobbing. They were gut-wrenching sobs, almost choking her as she came to the realization that minus Toby, she’s _alone_. She’s all alone and maybe, just maybe, she always will be.)

 

She lets shock waft through her body. She drops the clipboard and registers it clattering to the ground; she staggers backwards, Doctor Saunier, catching her by the elbow. “I’m fine.” She wheezes. “I’m fine.” She looks up at him, her eyes watering, her breath labored. “I need…I have to…it has to be me.”

 

Doctor Saunier shakes his head, “Molly, you shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.”

 

(They talked about this, she and Sherlock did, and Sherlock told her that if Doctor Saunier persisted, to tell him that she’ll go to Mike Stamford and get permission from him, but Molly was adamant at that being the last resort.)

 

“He trusted me.” And when he looks like he’s going to protest, Molly takes a deep breath and tells him the only truth she’s able to, “I loved him.” ( _Still do. Always will.)_

 

Doctor Saunier closes his eyes and nods slowly, still wanting to argue. “For what it’s worth…I am sorry, Molly.”

 

“Keep everyone out please.”

* * *

His hair is matted with blood (some of it fake, some of it real, his blood, taken from the night before), his body is scattered with cuts and bruises. She stays still, staring at his body until she realizes that she’s been staring enough. She takes off his clothes, gently, delicately. She’s a professional. She’s done this a thousand times before, so she keeps her eyes on his face and watches as the blood washes off his body and down the drain, staining the water and metal slab red.

 

When she’s done with Sherlock, Molly glances over at the next slab over and bites her lip as she stares at Jim (Moriarty.)

 

(There is a part of her that will traitorously always remember him as Jim. Jim, who loved her cat, Jim, who loved watching Glee, Jim, who loved laughing, Jim, who loved kissing the spot on her neck. _Not_ , Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, murderer and the reason why Sherlock had to fake his own death.) 

 

She feels guilty that she’s not as gentle with Jim as she was with Sherlock, but Molly can’t bring herself to care.

 

(Because if she does bring herself to care, she’ll start to come to the realization that everything, everyone, she touches and loves, dies in one-way or another.)

* * *

John comes barreling into the morgue and it takes both Molly and Greg to restrain him. He’s yelling, begging and pleading, sometimes coherently, most of the time, incoherently, not that Molly can blame him. She’s barely holding on to her sanity as it is. “John, please.” Molly begs.

 

“No.” He says, his voice hoarse from the yelling. She looks at the window and sees a few doctors milling around, necks craning to get a look at the man they all hated. It fills her with disgust. Their morbid fascination with a death they know nothing about.

 

It angers her to see Sherlock so scrutinized, even in death (despite how fake it may be).

 

John wrenches out of Greg’s grasp and makes his way over to Sherlock. “Please.” He says, “please. Don’t be dead. Just…don’t.” He looks up at Molly and Molly grips the counter behind her. “Molly, please, there has to be something…anything?”

 

She shakes her head, her eyes stinging. “I’m so sorry John. I’m so sorry.”

 

He composes himself quickly, straightening his shoulders and wiping at his face. “Me too.” He stares at Sherlock for a moment longer and then exits the morgue, Greg doing the same, squeezing Molly’s shoulder before he leaves.

 

(It’s only when she’s alone and placing both Sherlock and Jim’s bodies in separate drawers, eyes straying to the clock, that she realizes John walked out of the morgue with a slight, almost unnoticeable, but still there, limp.)

* * *

_“Your father,” a voice behind her says, “he has cancer. Prostate. Dying. Your mother has been dead for decades, since you were five. You had your appendix taken out seven years ago. You burnt your finger this morning on your toast. Studying pathology because you like the calm of the dead and not the chaos of the living. You like having the answers, which is exemplified by the fact that you are at the top of your class, quite a feat, for someone so young, yet, undoubtedly alienates and intimidates your other classmates. You have one, no two, very close friends, no siblings and no extended family-”_

_Molly blinks at him, hands gripping the bench behind her with tight hands. She rocks on the balls of her feet, staring at the man with blue-green eyes and dark, wildly curly hair. She watches his lips as they move rapidly with words and she can’t help but think how brilliant he is and how utterly gorgeous he is. (Enough to make her heart stutter, enough to make her blood boil and enough to pique her curiosity.)_

_(She wonders if he’s as lonely as she is, spewing deductions about everyone and everything he sees.)_

_She’s heard (been warned) of him. Of the man with the Belstaff coat and a mouth that manages to run a mile a minute (“almost always with some insulting, the bloody bastard.”) “Wow.” She breathes. “Neat.”_

_He looks almost pleasantly stunned at her admission and his gaze almost (almost) softens. “Hm…that’s not what most people say.”_

_“What do they usually say?” She asks him. (She’d ask him anything, if it meant having him near her, if meant keeping him talking, not only because his voice sends shiver down her spine but because of his intellect, because his intelligence is unparalleled to anyone’s she’s ever met.)_

_“Piss off.”_

_Molly lets out a bark of laughter. “I’ve no doubt.” She’s afraid she’s going to go into cardiac arrest with the way her heart is beating, so she counts to ten and tries to get her heart rate back down to normal. “Molly Hooper.” She introduces herself, outstretching her hand, “currently a student.”_

_It takes him a moment before he puts his hand in hers and her breath catches as his cold hand encloses around hers, his thumb pressing against her pulse point, lips almost (almost) quirking up in a barely there smile, as he undoubtedly feels the thundering of her pulse. “I know. I’m-”_

_“Sherlock Holmes.” Molly finishes for him, with a slight smile on her face. “I’ve heard about you. You’re a detective for the Yard.”_

_He looks a bit put out and bit insulted, “the world’s only Consulting Detective.”_

_She nods and shrugs, “although, you did get something wrong. My father has lung cancer. Not prostate.”_

_“There’s always something.”_

_(It’s not until later, when she’s describing the encounter to her father, that she realizes he didn’t let go of her hand during their exchange, instead, keeping it clasped in his, his thumb stroking her pulse point.)_

* * *

It’s just after midnight when she hears the telltale signs of him waking. She grabs the handle on the drawer and pulls it open. His eyes are open, staring at her and she gives him a smile, body relaxing. “Hi.” She says.

 

He doesn’t say anything as he gets up, the sheet slipping away from his body, leaving him nude.

 

She makes a squawk of noise before thrusting a bag of clothes in his hands. She turns around to give him privacy and she hears him grunt with pain. She turns back around and walks towards him with shaky hands and helps him put on his sweater and zips and buttons his trousers.

 

She’s blushing scarlet when she steps away from him. “Mycroft is waiting outside.”

 

He nods and before he leaves he looks back at her, “Molly.” He says, his voice hoarse, “thank you.”

 

“Always.” She says. “Always.”

 

(It isn’t until he’s gone that she grips the morgue slab, vaguely recognizing it as the one Sherlock was in, and starts weeping.)

* * *

It’s morning by the time she gets back to her flat.

 

She nearly shrieks when she sees Sherlock lying on her couch, Toby curled on the armrest, resting peacefully. “Sherlock.” She hisses, hand at her chest. “What are you doing here? Not that I mind…because I don’t…but you’re supposed to be in another _country_ right now.”

 

He waves a hand, “I can’t fly with my injuries.”

 

(They both know he’s lying.)

 

“I need to heal, Molly.” ( _Please let me heal. Please heal me. Please fix me_.)

 

(And because she already killed this man earlier, she figures the least she can do is bring him back to some sort of semblance of life.) “Okay.” She says.

* * *

_There is loud and insistent banging on her door. Molly groans, looking at the clock and frowns when she sees 3am shining brightly at her. She thinks she’s imagining it, thinks that maybe, she’s left the telly on, but one quick glance and she knows that the flat is silent and the only noise is indeed coming from outside her flat door._

_Grabbing the baseball bat (a gift from Mary “well, now that we’re not living together, you’ve got to have something to defend yourself with, since you won’t have my crazy arse self with you”) she makes her way to the door, jumping when the knocking sounds again and looks through the peephole. Her mouth drops, eyes widen, as she struggles to undo the locks. She barely drops the bat before Sherlock Holmes stumbles into her arms and practically drags her down to the floor with him._

_She shuts the door with her foot and holds onto his dead weight while locking her flat door. She eases him onto the ground and grasps his face in her hands. “Sherlock?” She asks loudly. “Sherlock.” His head lolls to the side and he smiles sleepily at her. “Oh god.” She says. Her mind racing, her body panicking. She peels his eyelids open and sees how dilated his pupils are. “What did you take? Sherlock, what did you take?”_

_He’s mumbling incoherently and she manages to only catch snippets. “My mind.” “Rest.” “I just want peace.” “Too much.” “Are you going to fix me?” He scratches at his left arm and Molly scrambles to wrench off his Belstaff and pull up the sleeve of his shirt, cursing at the bruise forming on his vein. “Heroin?” She hisses. She drags him to the toilet and murmurs her apologies as she shoves her fingers down his throat._

_She almost retches as she feels his puke on her hand and arms. He retches and she sits back, washing and washing her arm again as she keeps a close eye on him. She kneels back down and rubs his back and hair, already matted with sweat. “It’s okay.” She whispers. “I’m here. You have me. Always.”_

_The next morning she wakes up to voices, she looks around her room, to find Sherlock’s spot empty and she stumbles out of the room and into the sitting area, where Sherlock is sitting, arms curled around his legs, talking to a man holding an umbrella and a young woman with dark hair picking idly at her nails._

_“You need rehab. And this time, you will complete it. Or I will ensure you will never touch your trust fund.”_

_“I hardly need rehab, Mycroft. And why you insist on surrounding me next to bumbling idiots talking about how their addiction is not their faults but that of society is not only cruel and unusual punishment but it’s tedious.”_

_“Sherlock, you go to rehab or your little game of playing detective will be over.”_

_“He’s right you know.” Molly speaks up and then wishes she hadn’t, when three set of eyes turn to look at her. “You…you almost died last night.”_

_“Everyone dies, Molly. Don’t be sentimental.”_

_She shakes her head. “No. You almost died here. In my flat and I will be sentimental because that’s…that’s who I am. You almost died, Sherlock and I can’t…you can’t…you have to live. You’re too…special not to.” She whispers the last three words, feeling foolish and childish admitting it to them (him.)_

_The woman appraises her, staring her up and down and then with a quirk of her lips, she goes back to examining her nails._

_“I can…I’ll take care of your experiments. Everything will be…everything will be as you left it. But you have to…you have to get better because I can’t…Sherlock…I can’t watch you almost die again.”_

_(Within the hour, Sherlock is out of her flat and out of her life for three months.)_

* * *

(Its only years later, she realizes that she not only watched him die again, but she’s the one who killed him.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is more of a transitional chapter. I apologize if it’s for shit. The real stuff (*ahem smut ahem*) begins in chapter 3. But yeah, I am having such a blast writing and I am so grateful and thankful that you guys seem to like it so far!  
> Like seriously, HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME AND AMAZINGBALLS AND OHMYGOD I LOVE YOU ALL. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has kudos'd/bookmarked/favored/followed/reviewed....seriously, you support means the world to me and I cannot thank you enough.


	3. Part three

His funeral is a small affair.

 

It has flowers and a priest and people weeping and all Molly can think of is how much he would hate it.

* * *

John holds her hand at the cemetery, squeezing tightly as his casket is lowered into the ground. She winces at the pain but grips back just as tightly.

 

When it’s done, Molly’s hand is numb but John gives her a hug, arms wrapping around her and his lips pressing against her temple. “I’m sorry Molly.”

 

She frowns, looking up at him, “what? John, I don’t…”

 

“He was my best friend. I knew him for a year, but he was my best friend. You…you’ve known him for _eight_ and you loved him more than sometimes, I think he deserved.”

 

She blinks rapidly, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want ( _deserve_ , she thinks hysterically, her mind rallying against her, _I don’t deserve_ ) his sympathy, his pity. It’s misplaced. _It’s all misplaced._ She wants to tell him. She wants to hold his hands and tell him that Sherlock’s _alive_ , a bit bruised, a bit broken, but _alive_ and _God, John, please forgive me, but it was for you. And Mrs. Hudson and Greg and-_

 

“…that he was a fake.”

_(Maybe, maybe, even a little bit for me.)_

 

“What?” She asks numbly, her eyes straying over John’s shoulders to the tombstone, _Sherlock Holmes_ , engraved in black.

 

“Before he jumped…he…he told me to tell you that he was fake. That everything he did was…” John trails off, his body wracked with emotion.

 

This time, it’s Molly who grips his hand tightly, “I don’t believe it.” She tells him. “I _knew_ Sherlock Holmes and he was anything but a fake. I…I believe in Sherlock, John. Always. Always.”

 

John nods and kisses her cheek and promises to get together before limping away, leaning heavily on his cane.

 

The sun is shining but all Molly feels is the cold as she stares at his tombstone. She waits until everyone is gone and all that’s left is the groundskeeper, wafting in and around tombstones like a ghostly apparition. “You know,” Molly says, her voice soft, hands clasped and wringing together until her fingers are sore and the skin across her knuckles is pale and white, “sometimes, I wish I never met you.”

 

She takes back what she says almost instantly, because she can’t imagine her life without him.

 

(Idly, she wonders who would count, who he would trust, if Molly Hooper wasn’t in his life. There is a pain in her chest, so overwhelming, that she grips the iron gates to steady herself, thinking that _one_ day, this _will_ all be over and Molly Hooper _will_ cease to count in his life.)

 

(She always manages to overstay her welcome.)

* * *

When he’s not resting his body, he’s in his mind palace, when he’s not in his mind palace, he’s researching and when he’s not researching; he’s driving Molly out of her mind.

 

She doesn’t mind, at least not really, because for as exasperated as he sometimes makes her, that’s just it, isn’t it? _He’s_ making her exasperated. He’s _alive_ and Molly will always, _always_ be grateful for that.

 

(So, of course, Molly manages to fuck it all up.)

* * *

She shuts the door with her foot, placing the groceries on the kitchen table and making her way to sitting room, where Sherlock is sitting on the sofa. “Sherlock, I’m making pasta, is there anything-oh… _oh_.” She bites her lip and turns her face. Hand coming up and cradling one side of her face. “You…ah…you have…”

 

“An erection.” He says nonchalantly. “It will go away.”

 

“Right.” She says, fingering the collar of her shirt, pulling at it, trying to ease the suffocation she can feel creeping into her body. “I’m just…I’m going to shower. You can…it can…okay.” She shakes her head and walks to her room, gathering her clothes and necessities before making her way to her bathroom, shutting and locking the door.

 

She leans her head against the cool wood and tries to get the image of Sherlock’s erect and clothed cock out of her mind. (Idly, she wonders what caused him to be erect in the first place and moans quietly when she hopes against all hope that it has something to do with her.)

 

(In the darkest part of her mind, she thinks back to a nameless woman last Christmas, who he recognized by _not her face_.)

 

Molly sighs, bracing herself against the door and cursing herself for being stupid. Men like Sherlock Holmes don’t go for women like Molly Hooper. She has a lifetime of heartache to prove it.

* * *

She spends too much time in the bathroom, slipping on her shorts and loose shirt, her wet hair, dampening her shirt. She’s towel drying her hair when she walks into the sitting room and halts.

 

Sherlock is still there. As is his erection.

 

He looks at her and Molly’s breath catches in her throat.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“While mildly disconcerting, my body seems to be betraying me.”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Odd…this hasn’t happened since I was fifteen and-”

 

“ _Sherlock_.” Molly says forcefully, her heart caught in her throat. _Don’t do it, Molly, God, don’t do it. Shut your mouth, don’t say anything, please, don’t-_ “I can help you with that. If…you’d like.” She adds after a pause.

 

She expects him to scoff at her. She expects him to tell her _no_. And after a few moments of silence, she full expects him to leave out the fire escape, because _she’s_ the one who made this awkward. _She’s_ the one who had to open her mouth. _She’s_ the one who has killed and healed this man and God help her, if allowed, she would probably follow him to the deepest pit of hell, where he will carve out her heart and burn it.

 

She doesn’t expect him to lean back, arms stretching the length of the sofa and nods, “Okay.”

* * *

The drawstrings of his pajama trousers easily come apart in her fingers. The silk cool against her heated hand as she slips her hand inside and grasps his cock. He makes a hissing sound when her fingers tease his tip. He unconsciously thrusts his hips into her hand and she gulps, staring at his profile, while her hand moves around his cock, sometimes softly, sometimes tightly. She watches as his jaw tightens and his pulse on his neck throbs.

 

Without thinking, ( _what thinking?_ She’s lost her mind and sanity, the day she met this man) she presses her lips to his pulse and sucks. His hips pump against her hand and he lets out a soft groan as she nibbles the spot with her teeth and soothes the mark with her tongue.

 

Her other hand tugs at the trousers and he lifts his hips up and she manages to pull them down, her body, following the path his trousers and pants take.

 

His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, nose flaring as he stares down at her.

 

His cock is hot and wet against her hand as she strokes him once, twice and then wraps her mouth where her hand doesn’t cover. She teases the tip of him with her tongue, swirling and sucking, cheeks hollowing. She almost gags when his hands tangle in her hair and push her down deeper, his cock hitting the back of her throat.

 

It’s almost obscene, the amount of noise she’s making sucking on his cock. Her thighs twitch with want and anticipation, her knickers soaking wet, she’s almost sure he can smell her arousal.

 

One more suck and he comes with a groan, fingers digging painfully into her skull, keeping her locked in place, cock fucking her mouth. She swallows and lets him go with a pop, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand and sitting back on her haunches.

 

His cock grows limp and she can see that he’s sated. She pulls his pants and trousers back up, hissing when she accidently brushes against his soft cock.

 

She bumps into the table. “Sorry.” She stammers. “I just…sorry. I’m going to…go.” She almost runs to her room, shutting the door behind her and slumping down to the ground, trying to catch her breath.

 

She gets up and crawls onto her bed, her body thrumming with energy and arousal and _God_ all she wants is release.

 

She tries to think of something, _anything_ else, but it doesn’t work. Her mouth is dry, the taste of him on the roof of her mouth and on her tongue, igniting her senses.

 

She doesn’t know how long she’s lost in her mind; all she knows is that her hand (and with disgust and fascination, she realizes it’s the hand that was wrapped around Sherlock’s cock earlier) trails down the familiar path of her stomach to her core. She feels the heat and wetness and her eyes roll back as she strokes her curls, dipping a finger in and gathering her moisture.

 

Her scent permeates through the room (she toys with the idea of bringing out her vibrator, but is terrified the noise would pique his curiosity, sending him exploring and the _last_ thing she needs is for _Sherlock Holmes_ to see her on her bed, fucking herself to the thought of him.)

 

She bites the back of her free hand from crying out as she inserts two fingers and pumps them in and out of her rapidly, almost painfully. Her hips are meeting thin air as she thrusts them wildly, whimpers escaping her mouth despite her muffled attempts.

 

She turns her head into her pillow when she orgasms, spilling all over her hand and letting out a loud gasp and sob.

 

She’s gasping for breath, chest heaving, thighs shaking and she’s left aching for more.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock is sitting on the kitchen table, not the sofa and he tells her, “I’m leaving in two days.”

 

“Okay.” She replies.

* * *

That day, John calls her up and asks to meet for coffee. Molly agrees.

 

“Do you ever…do you ever just think about everything he’s said and done and wonder if you missed something. If maybe…maybe…if I noticed something…if I paid more attention, we could have avoided this.”

 

“All the time, John.”

* * *

_One day, while Sherlock was away at rehab, Molly bumps into a man at Speedy’s. “Sorry.” She apologizes profusely. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…bollocks.”_

_“Molly?” The man asks, disbelief tinting his voice. “Molly Hooper?”_

_“Yes. Sorry do I…Tom.” She says. And suddenly, she’s taken back to the day decades ago, where the gravel made permanent scars on the palms of her hands and she was taunted and teased by classmates while Tom stood there and did nothing. “Hi. How…how are you?”_

_“Good.” He says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “I’m a lawyer now. You?”_

_“Pathologist. At Bart’s. As a pathologist…obviously.” She winces at her awkwardness and he laughs politely. “What are you doing here?”_

_“On break. I live in Manchester and just needed…well…I just needed to get away. Do you…can you…sit, I mean? I would like to catch up.”_

_“I can’t.” She tries to say._

_“Just for a coffee.” He gives her a grin (the same charming grin, she remembers) and Molly nods and its down across from him._

_“just a coffee.” She says._

_(One coffee turns into a walk and one walk turns into dinner and one dinner turns into a few drinks and a few drinks turns into fumbling kisses as she pushes him into her flat and into her room and fumbling kisses turns into pleasured moans as she slides atop Tom and moves up and down, his hands kneading her breasts as she gasps and whimpers for more.)_

_(The day after, when Tom leaves, leaving her breathless with a kiss, she manages not to throw up her breakfast because of a feeling in the pit of her stomach, telling her that she somehow betrayed Sherlock. Which is ridiculous. Because she didn’t.)_

_(This is what she tells herself.)_

* * *

His back is stiff and straight, is what she first notices when she quietly enters her flat.

 

“Sherlock?” She asks hesitantly. “are you okay?”

 

“Fine.” He bites out.

* * *

She’s pulling on her nightshirt when her bedroom door opens. Sherlock is standing there, hands gripping the doorframe. “I’m tense.” He admits.

 

“I could tell. You’re leaving tomorrow to take down a criminal network left behind by a madman, it’s only natural, I suppose. Do you want tea?” She makes to leave her room, but he grabs her by her wrist.

 

His eyes are hooded and slightly frantic, as if unaware of what to do with his body, “No.” He says, “my body is tense. I need release.”

 

She bites her lip, her hand straying to the front of his trousers, “I could-” She’s stopped by his hand on her wrist again.

 

He shakes his head. And suddenly, Molly’s heart drops.

 

She wants to tell him that it’s unfair to her. Because he _knows_ , he _has_ to know, that she’s loved him for so long. That it’s been _torture_ having him in her flat, sharing her bathroom and shower. She wants to tell him _no_ and save herself the dignity because this can only end in heartbreak. Because she’s had enough agony in her life and she doesn’t want to add anymore. She should walk away because she knows that while he sees her as someone he trusts, she will never be more than that and she _wants_ to be more than that, if not to him, than to someone.

 

She should say _no_.

 

(But Molly Hooper would do anything for Sherlock and that, apparently, includes this.) “What do you need?” She asks, echoing a question familiar to the both of them.

 

Even before he opens his mouth (she sees his eyes flare with familiarity) she knows what he’s going to say and just like before, she’s helpless to do anything else, but help him. “You.”

* * *

Her nipples harden as his mouth descends on her right one and his hand plays with the other one, pinching and pulling as she whimpers, hands clinging to his head.

 

They’re both naked, his cock heavy and hard between her legs and she brings her hand between them, fingers caressing his balls. His mouth lets go of her nipple with a pop, grabbing her hands and placing them over her head, as he kisses his way down her neck, sucking viciously at her skin, leaving marks.

 

She lets out an embarrassing moan and whimper when his mouth descends on her core, tongue swirling around her clit, fingers finding their way into her wet center. She wraps her legs around his neck, hips thrusting against his face. “Yes. God. _Sherlock_. _Please_.” Her head is thrashing back and forth as he sucks and licks, his fingers alternating from soothing circles to thrusts.

 

She feels her orgasm cresting and is ready to welcome it with open arms when he wrenches his mouth away from her. She whimpers with need.

 

“Condom.” He gasps, as her hands find his cock and strokes him.

 

“Bedside drawer.” She answers.

 

He has her on her knees, and slides into her as soon as his condom is on. He thrusts experimentally at first, but she’s eager for more, and _God_ , this is everything she imagined it would be. He’s pressing against every nerve, lighting her body on fire. “Sherlock. _Please_.” She begs and he listens, thrusting hard against her, enough to make her cry out. “Yes. Oh _God_. _Sherlock._ Please.”

 

Her knees buckle under pressure and she slips down onto the mattress, feeling the breath leaving her body as he falls atop her, scrambling up to keep from suffocating her (in her delirium, she doesn’t care, she would rather feel all of him than none of him.) He slips out of her at their movement and they both groan the loss, until he slips back in.

 

With one hand, holding himself up, the other hand creeps between the mattress and her body, fingers toying with her clit. “ _Sherlock_.” She sobs. “Oh… _Oh_ …” She turns her head into the pillow and bites down on the softness, gasping at the feeling and emotions. “Don’t stop. _Please don’t stop_. I’m _so_ close. So close. _Fuck_ please.” Sherlock’s fingers twist and curve inside of her, cock pumping in and out of her pussy and her orgasm washes over her hard, leaving her gasping for breath and sobbing for pleasure.

 

He bites the back of her neck, turning her face and slamming his lips against hers. (It’s their first kiss and it’s _nothing_ like she imagines it would be and she can’t help but feel the loss of _something_.) It’s all teeth and tongue and desperate and his thrusts are losing control. “Molly.” He rumbles against her lips. “ _Molly_.” She can feel him stretching out, his body covering hers as he lets out a groan and explodes inside of her.

 

Spent, he collapses atop her for a moment, pushing her into the mattress and stealing her breath before he rolls off and peels away the condom.

 

The stench of sex is almost crude but Molly doesn’t care. Instead, she turns around, her breasts heaving with every breath.

 

“Molly.” He says, breath labored, “thank you.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, just watches him get up and go. She stares up at her ceiling and wills the tears to go away. This is no one’s fault but her own.

 

( _Just for one night_. She promises herself. _Just for one night_.)

 

(Molly Hooper has never been good at keeping her promises.)

* * *

When Molly leaves for work the next morning, Sherlock is in his mind palace.

 

When she comes back that night, he’s gone.

 

She doesn’t even get a goodbye.

 

She sinks down on the sofa; body still sore from the night before, looks around her empty flat and cries until she feels like her chest is going to explode ( _maybe_ , she thinks, _maybe it already did_.)

* * *

Almost one month later, on her way from work, a sleek black car pulls up beside her.

 

She gets in and stares at Mycroft and Anthea. She’s itching to ask how he is. If he’s alright. _Is he eating? Is he being safe? Does he ask about me?_

 

“Doctor Hooper.” Mycroft says, “Sherlock needs you.”

 

( _Just this once_ , she promises herself. _Just this on_ ce.)

 

(Molly Hooper has never been good at keeping her promises. Especially where Sherlock Holmes is concerned.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So….eh…hello. How are you all doing? I’m just going to….oh look! There’s a squirrel! Was it good? Crappy? Hot? Let me know what you all think! Seriously though, it never fails to AMAZE and ASTOUND me, how AWESOME you guys are. Like seriously, one hundred per cent, I’m flailing my hands over here in love with you guys. Your support means the world to me and words cannot express how thankful and grateful I am.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/kudos'd/favored/followed/bookmarked and is reading. Seriously thank you all so so much. It means the world to me. Thank you thank you thank you!


	4. Part Four

_The day before she leaves (to God knows where, all she knows is that she’s going to Sherlock and somehow she’s not surprised that all roads in her life lead to Sherlock Holmes) she goes to 221b Baker Street._

_Mrs. Hudson answers the door; her movements slow, almost painful. Molly steps into the hall and hugs her, arms lingering around her a bit longer than necessary. She doesn’t know when she’ll be back. Maybe, she’ll be back in a few days. Maybe in a week. Maybe in a month. Maybe never._

_(Molly has never known her grandmothers, but if she did, if she had a choice, she would like to think that they would be similar to Mrs. Hudson, always smelling of baked goods and a hint of brandy, a smile on her face, a story to tell and a bad hip to complain about.)_

_“Has your hip been bothering you?” Molly asks._

_Mrs. Hudson gives her a tired smile. “It gets worse with the weather.”_

_“I’m here to see john, but on my way down…if it’s okay, I’d like to visit.”_

_For the first time since she last saw her (at Sherlock’s funeral, where she was gripping Greg’s arm, struggling to stand upright) Mrs. Hudson smiles brightly and says, “I’d like that, dear.”_

* * *

The private jet touches down, wheels meeting the tarmac roughly, jolting her forward and she lets out a deep breath through gritted teeth. (The attendant smiles apologetically at her, from her spot.)

 

When it does finally come to a full stop, the engine slowly dying down, Molly stands up, stretching her legs and grabbing her bag. She walks down the small steps and holds her coat closer to her body against the cold and bitter air. She looks around her, trying to discern where the _bloody_ hell she is, when a flag catches her eyes.

 

She feels her stomach coil in excitement, apprehension and maybe a little bit of fear.

 

(She has always wanted to go to Switzerland.)

* * *

_John looks at her with eyes that aren’t all there. He’s letting his facial hair grow and Molly doesn’t have the heart to tell him that facial hair doesn’t particularly look great on him. “You’re leaving.”_

_Molly nods stiffly. She almost backs out right then and there at the sound of his voice, so desolate, so lonely. She had made a promise to Sherlock (it was a silent promise, but a promise nonetheless, that she would take care of them, that she would make sure that they were safe and alive and that this all wouldn’t be for naught) and now…now she’s breaking it because the man they all love, the man that integrated himself into their lives and turned it upside down, needs her._

_(Molly would do anything for Sherlock but she wonders when enough is enough. She wonders what her breaking point will be. She hopes she won’t find out.)_

_“I am.”_

_“For how long?”_

_“I don’t know.” She answers truthfully._ Until, I’m no longer needed. Until, I no longer count.

_“Why?”_

Because Sherlock needs me. _She blinks, mind scrambling for an answer that won’t completely ruin the man in front of her. “Because,” she says slowly, testing the words on her tongue. “London isn’t the same.”_

_(It’s a truth they both know all too well.)_

* * *

The car takes her to a house locked by iron gates. She watches, as they swing open and follows the trail the car makes as it takes her up the long driveway to the front of the house.

 

It’s large, white with glass windows and Molly sees the reflection of a pool from the glass. She sees agents walking the parameter, guns hidden but easily accessible. Molly nods at them, clutching the strap of her bag and lifts her hand to knock on the door.

 

Her knuckles don’t even meet the door, instead it is opened by a man dressed smartly in a suit and he opens the door wider, allowing her in and taking her bag from her without a word. She follows him into the house hesitantly, eyes marveling at the marble and how new and beautiful it looks.

 

Another man meets her halfway, “he’s upstairs. Third door on the right.”

 

When she walks up the stairs and down the hall, her fingers trailing across the walls, she expects him to be wounded. She expects him to be sick. Because even though she’s a pathologist and he’s a supposed dead man, she knows that she’s the only doctor (besides John) he trusts, the only doctor he can stand to be around. So, she braces herself as she pushes open the door and is mentally, physically and emotionally ready to help the man she’s already risked so much for.

 

She doesn’t expect him to be sitting on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin and not a bruise on his body.

 

He looks up at the noise and his eyes narrow and he huffs in…( _in what, Molly?_ Her brain snaps at her, _disappointment? Agitation? Why did you come? No good can come out of this.)_

 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks, his voice is distant, cold even and Molly suddenly feels as if ice has been dumped on her body. As if, the cold has seeped through her skin, freezing her blood, immobilizing her.

 

_Because you need me,_ she wants to say. She blinks rapidly, “Mycroft…” she whispers, “Mycroft told me to come.”

 

“Molly,” he says again, his voice rumbling with impatience and Molly frowns when she hears a bit of desperation, as if he’s seeking an answer that she’s hasn’t given. “Why are you here?”

 

“…because you need me.” She says softly. _And because I’ll always come, always._

 

(Sherlock leans against the sofa, satisfied and content.)

 

(Molly doesn’t bother thinking about what that means.)

* * *

_The first time Sherlock says something awful to her, it’s about her appearance. He looks her up and down, his eyes hardening as he see she’s wearing a new blouse and a skirt and a little bit of makeup. (When Molly called Mary and gushed to her about the man whose intelligence rivals anyone’s “I’ve ever met and his eyes, God, Mary, his eyes are enough to make me weak in the knees,” Mary tells her to dress up, “show him what he’s missing, make him see you, Molly.”)_

_“You look nice, Molls.” Greg says, smiling._

_Sherlock glares and tells her that she’s trying too hard, that her relationship is doomed and that her breasts don’t fill out the blouse. He says more, but all Molly can hear is her blood pounding in her ears. All she can hear is her labored breathing and she can’t even see, her vision is starting to blur. (She’s heard him say hateful things before, but they were never directed towards her. Never_. I suppose, there’s a first time for everything, _Molly thinks hysterically.)_

_“Take a day off, Sherlock.” Greg hisses at him._

_“It’s fine.” Molly can hear herself say, her voice is up an octave and her hand goes to her throat and for once, Sherlock falls silent. “It’s fine…you’re right. Of course you are. I just…it was…” (_ It was for you. It was all for you. Always _.) She leaves the lab, shoes echoing in the hall as she bursts into the locker room and locks herself in a stall. The sleeve of her blouse muffling her mouth as she takes in deep sobs._

_When she walks out of the stall, she washes her face until all the makeup is off and she changes into a pair of spare scrubs, she always keeps in case of emergencies and she walks back down to the lab._

_(When she walks in, a fake smile plastered on her face, there is no one there to see it. Both Greg and Sherlock have left and she’s alone.)_

_She goes to see her father after her shift. Wearily sitting down on the seat next to his bed. There is a male nurse in the room, his back to Molly, fiddling and fixing tangled wires. He’s wearing a cap on his head and Molly can’t be bothered to say hello. Can’t be bothered with niceness when all she wants to do is crawl into bed, next to her father and have him hold her while she sobs. He turns his head and looks at her. “Molls, love? What is it? Did that Sherlock bloke do something to you?”_

_(If Molly were more observant, as Sherlock always tells her to be, she would have seen the male nurse stiffen, standing straight as the question leaves her father’s mouth. She would have seen the way, his breath stopped, awaiting her answer. But Molly is not more observant, as Sherlock always tells her to be, so she doesn’t see it.)_

_She settles down into the chair, bringing her legs underneath her and gives her dad a small, watery smile. “Men like Sherlock Holmes don’t belong with women like me.”_

_(If Molly were more observant, as Sherlock always tells her to be, she would have heard the low, almost guttural whine of disbelief that comes from the male nurse’s mouth. But Molly is not more observant, as Sherlock always tells her to be, so she doesn’t hear it.)_

* * *

She travels the world, to exotic places that she’s always read about but has never had the chance or opportunity to go to. Yet, they always seem to come back to Switzerland. Back to the same house, with the same gates and the same pool. Molly doesn’t mind, she likes going back to one familiar place and unwinding.

 

She does what she can to help. She researches and scouts as much as she can and because Molly is just so apt at being normal, it’s easier for her to blend in. There is a thrill that goes through her body, a sense that she _is_ doing something meaningful. That she is being more than just a burden.

 

The agents teach her how to defend herself, going through basic defensive moves that leave her breathless and sore.

 

(Sherlock always paces the practice area, his eyes scanning her every move and Molly fights, she pushes harder to make him realize that everything she’s doing, everything she has _ever_ done, has been _for him_.)

 

It’s going on five months that she’s been here with him, traveling with him, helping him (it’s been six months since he fell off the roof of Bart’s, six months since he last touched her and her body aches desperately to feel the weight of him again and she prays to the God she doesn’t believe in that no one hears her at night, fingers working herself until she comes with a hoarse and muffled cry, heaving with images of man with brilliant eyes and an even more brilliant mind.)

 

It’s been going on five months and everything has been fine.

 

(Until it’s not.)

* * *

_“Molly.” John calls out to her, before she leaves. “I shouldn’t ask you this, God, I know I shouldn’t but you did both Sherlock’s and Moriarty’s autopsies, yeah?”_

_She nods. “Yeah, I did.”_

_“On Moriarty…was there…I mean…was there anything? Anything at all to explain why…?” Why were they on the roof? Why did they meet? What does Moriarty have on Sherlock? Molly, please, there are so many questions and you were the last person to see them both._

_“Nothing.” She tells him truthfully. “I’m sorry.”_

_He lets out a breath and runs a hand over his face. “Don’t be. I just…it was worth a shot, right?”_

_“Right.”_

* * *

His arm is thick and muscular as it presses against her windpipe. She struggles against him, the alley a way’s off from civilization. Her head is growing dizzy as breathing becomes impossible.

 

They’re in Spain and the heat is oppressing.

 

The man she was following, Pablo Silva is a prominent businessman, with hands in organized crime, one of the organizations being Moriarty’s and she fed Sherlock the information she gathered on him. Where he likes to visit, what time he eats, where he eats, where he likes to take his dog on a walk and when her job was done, when she took the day to explore Madrid for herself, she found herself being pulled into an alley, with no help.

 

Every defensive move she remembered being blocked by his body.

 

“Molly Hooper.” He hisses laughingly in her ear. His breath is hot and she recoils. “Oh, Jimmy was right about you. You’re a wild one, aren’t you? Desperate for Sherlock enough to risk your _own fucking life_. He always said you were incredibly smart but really, you’re just an idiot aren’t you?”

 

Her struggles renew and he presses himself against her, the brick wall digging into her back painfully.

 

“It’s only because he had a soft spot for a bitch like you, that I won’t kill you. But tell Sherlock dearest that Seb can’t wait to play and this time, his death won’t be fake.”

 

Molly sputters and when he lets up just a little bit, she lets out a scream that echoes and wrenches her hand across his face, nails clawing his face. “ _No_.” It is a desperate plea wrenching from her mouth, heart beating rapidly.

 

He moves towards her, his face contorted in rage, hand raised and then a voice breaks through the shadows. It’s not a voice she recognizes, but she’s familiar with the word, “ _ayuda! Ayuda_!” ( _Help, help_.)

 

He slinks into the shadows as people come rushing to help her.

 

(She looks back to the spot he disappeared into and sees nothing. Molly almost thinks she’s imagined it, but the pressure on her throat and the pain in her hand tells her that everything is real.)

* * *

_“Wherever you’re going,” Mrs. Hudson says, her words careful and her voice filled with emotion. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”_

_“Of course I will.”_

_Mrs. Hudson smiles at her, “good. I can’t lose you too, Molly.”_

_“You won’t. And I’ll be careful.” Molly promises._

_(Molly has always been bad at keeping her promises.)_

* * *

Sherlock is there at the edge of the crowd and the moment he sees her, he jumps forward, expression worried and distressed (she can see it. It’s in his eyes. It’s all a ploy. All a fake ruse.) _“She’s my wife. I’ll take her home. I’ll give you a statement. She was attacked.”_ He says it all in rapid Spanish and pulls her away from the crowd, hand still gripping hers tightly enough to hurt.

 

He all but pushes her into the car and she hears the tires squeal as they peel away from it all.

 

He doesn’t say anything but Molly can tell from his body that he’s tense.

 

(Unbidden to her, she blushes and absently rubs her neck.)

* * *

She lets out a groan as her body hits the mat.

 

(They’re back in Switzerland and this time it offers no relief. It’s dark when they arrive but Sherlock grips her wrist, just as tightly as he did in Madrid and drags her to the practice room, where he _attacks_ her.)

 

“Up.” He commands. His voice is labored and harsh.

 

Molly blinks away the tears and relishes the cool mat beneath her heated body. “Sherlock,” she gasps out.

 

“ _Up_.”

 

Without any choice, she hefts herself up on shaky legs and takes her place, feet apart, and arms at the ready, just like she was taught. He’s sweaty, shirt discarded long ago and Molly barely has time to commit him to memory when he attacks again. She blocks him once, twice and then meets the mat again.

 

She lets out a pitiful whine. “Sherlock, _please.”_

 

“He could have killed you.”

 

She rolls onto her back and winces. “But he _didn’t_.” She lets out a yelp as he drags her up, pressing his body against hers. He backs her up against the wall and she struggles, memories of earlier crashing over her.

 

“Fight.” He says.

 

She struggles harder but to no avail.

 

“Fight.” He says again, his voice louder, drops of spit from his mouth spraying her face.

 

She lets out a cry as she tries to move her legs, but he blocks her. “Damn it Molly, _fight_.”

 

_But tell Sherlock dearest that Seb can’t wait to play and this time, his death won’t be fake,_ comes unbidden to her mind and she lets out a loud yell, pushing against him with strength she didn’t know she possessed. Sherlock blocking her every move and Molly trying to deliver blow after blow. “No.” She says, at first it’s soft and then it grows in volume, every time Sherlock advances. “No _.” You will not kill him. I won’t let you._

 

Sherlock grabs her arm and they pause, Molly meeting his eyes and before she knows it, his foot hooks hers and sends them both sprawling onto the mat, his body stretched atop hers, chest to chest. They’re both breathing heavily, his sweat mixing with hers as his head drops to the crook of her neck. Mouth moving against her salty skin.

 

(She can’t hear what he’s saying but after five minutes of staying in the same position, she’s able to piece the words together, _he could have killed you_.)

 

_But he didn’t,_ she wants to say.

 

(She can’t find the breath nor the energy to say it.)

* * *

It’s unspoken, but Molly knows what’s going to happen as he follows her to her room and she can’t help the little shiver that runs through her body as he shuts the door and hears the lock click in place.

 

She turns around, hands coming up to his bare chest, sticky with dried sweat, and she wraps her arms around his neck, rising up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his clavicle, and then across his jaw, nipping his pulse point (and she’s taken back to a night, months ago, that started this entire thing, when she wrapped her hand around his cock and tore him apart.)

 

She presses her lips against his, softly at first and when he wraps his arms around her waist, desperately, tongues clashing and tasting each other. ( _This_ is the first kiss from him, she wanted, the kiss she always dreams about, that makes her weak in the knees.)

 

They fumble with their clothes, lips leaving and then meeting each other again, addicted to their mutual taste.

 

She leads him to the edge of the bed, sitting him down as she kneels in front of him, déjà vu overwhelming her as she wraps her hand around his cock and strokes him until she leans forward and envelopes him in her mouth. She hears him groan from above and opens her eyes watching as his mouth moves in _O_ shapes with his eyes closed. She caresses his balls and feels the familiar tightening in his stomach. He buries his hands in her hair, gripping and pulling until he pulls her off of him, huffing and puffing, face red and cock hard.

 

He pulls her up and twists her around until she’s beneath him and he kisses her breathless. She moans into his mouth, his cock presses against her stomach as his hands cup her breasts, toying with her nipples. She wrenches her mouth away from his and lets out a whimper as his fingers dip into her wetness, swirling and thrusting in and out. “Sherlock.” She moans. “God. _Yes_.”

 

He pulls his fingers out, glistening with her juices and brings them to his lips, but before he can put them in his mouth, Molly grabs his wrist and wraps her mouth around his fingers, wrapping her tongue around them and tasting herself.

 

He groans and ruts against her stomach.

 

“Sherlock.” She gasps, his fingers falling from her mouth, “ _now_ , please. I can’t…don’t make me wait anymore. _Please.”_

 

“Condom.” He breathes against her neck.

 

“Pill. I’m on the pill, please Sherlock, just-yes _. Yes. Sherlock.”_

 

He slides into her, burying himself to the hilt and he pauses, waits for her to adjust to the intrusion and she nods, wrapping her legs around his waist and arching her back. He thrusts deeply and Molly doesn’t bother muffling her noises. “Oh…oh…Sherlock…yes…God… _yes. More. Harder. Please_.”

 

He grabs the back of her thighs and adjusts her legs, so her knees are pressing against his shoulders, practically bending her in half. The new angle making her see stars. It doesn’t take long until she shrieks out her pleasure, wailing and keening with approval.

 

He keeps thrusting, head dropped down to the crook of her neck, mouth sucking and licking her pulse, lips moving in time with his groans. “Molly. Molly. _My Molly_.” He pulls out before he comes, semen landing on her thighs, stomach and bedsheets.

 

He collapses atop her, chest-to-chest, bodies heaving and she protests when he tries to move, holding him tightly. Her hands delving and getting lost in his sweat matted hair. “Sherlock,” She says, her heart beating rapidly. Her mind is telling her _to shut up, Molly, don’t say it. Please, don’t say it. No good can come from it. Be smart, Molly, please-“_ I love you.”

 

He stiffens and then relaxes, head pillowed on her breasts, breath tickling her.

 

(Everything is changing and there is a feeling in the pit of her stomach that tells Molly, none of it is for the better.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEARS EVERYONE! OH MY GOD! It’s 2014, which means a lot of things but most importantly I hope that 2014 is fantastic to all of you because you all deserve happiness and greatness.   
> Thank you thank you thank, a thousand and one times for everyone who has reviewed/kudos'd/favored/bookmarked/read/followed, I just...you guys are awesome and wonderful and words cannot express how much I adore you and just am so grateful to you all.


	5. Part five

_“Hey, Molly. It’s Tom…I just…last night was amazing. I’m going back to Manchester today but I’d like…I mean…I’d like to keep in contact, yeah? If you’re ever in Manchester, give me a call. Talk soon.”_

_Message saved._

* * *

It’s during the eighth month, that Mycroft and Anthea come to visit.

 

She and Sherlock have been sharing beds; nights spent pulling each other close and getting lost in the feeling of their bodies.

 

It’s the happiest Molly’s ever been.

 

(She should have known better. Good things and Molly Hooper have been the greatest of friends.)

* * *

_“Hi, Molly. It’s Tom again. It was great talking to you the other day. I’m in London to catch the Chelsea game, I’d love to meet up with you. Just, give me a call whenever you have free time. Bye.”_

_Message saved._

_“Molly.” Mary tells her, a coy smile on her face. “You need to call that bloke back.”_

_“I’m not leaving you tonight.” Molly says._

_Mary lets out a snort and laughs, “Molly, if it means you getting shagged by the guy whom you’ve liked since childhood, by all means, Toby and I will have a grand ol’ time together. Won’t we Toby?”_

_Toby flicks his tail in response._

_Molly smiles and shakes her head._

* * *

They’re in Germany, the four of them, when they track down their latest target. His name is Marcus Kompany and he’s a wealthy older man, he used to be a mercenary for hire and has since been hired by Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. He has… _eclectic_ tastes and Molly blushes when she reads up on his…acquired tastes. _I can do this,_ she tells herself.

 

She stares at the Holmes brothers, as they bicker back and forth and watches as Anthea types away on her mobile.

 

“So…what do I need to do?” Molly asks, her eyes straying to the picture on screen. Molly doesn’t think she would mind, going under and dressing up. Pretending to be something (someone) she’s not. There’s a certain appeal to it. He has a nice face, a friendly smile and lonely eyes (something Molly’s all too familiar with.)

 

“ _You_ won’t be doing anything.” Sherlock says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “This requires a bit more…experience.”

 

She winces, because she’s been _helping_ him for the past eight months (eight years). She put her life on hold, for _him_. (Molly wonders if he even notices, if he even realizes the sacrifices she makes for him.)

 

It doesn’t occur to her what he means, right away. But obviously, it does with Mycroft, because suddenly, he stiffens, his hand curling against his umbrella and his face hardening. Anthea stops typing, eyeing her boss and then glancing at Molly.

 

She pockets her phone and grabs Molly by the hand (she has soft hands, softer than Molly would have imagined.) “I’m hungry. Doctor Hooper, I’d love for you to join me for dinner.” (There is something in the tone of Anthea’s voice, as if she’s trying to tell her something, but Molly…Molly is just ordinary. She’s not as… _special_ as everyone else in the room seems to be and for the first time in eight months, Molly feels like she doesn’t belong.)

 

She’s confused and tries to protest but the grip on her hand tightens and Molly falls silent. Looking to Sherlock to say something, anything. (He doesn’t.)

 

(She pauses by the front door as soon as she hears Mycroft raise his voice and Sherlock follow in volume but Anthea continues to tug at her hand, leading her away.)

 

“You don’t need to hear that.” Anthea tells her as soon as they’re in the car.

 

This time, the inflection in her voice is something akin to pity and it leaves an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

_Mary snorts as she takes a sip of her wine and examines the two photos in front of her. “Molly, you do have a type, don’t you?”_

_“What?” Molly asks confused._

_She shows her the two pictures of Tom and Sherlock. “Tall, dark, handsome, mysterious, has a thing for wool coats and scarves.”_

_“Hmm…” she says and she shrugs, “I never saw it before.”_

_Mary gives her a look, “how the bloody hell…? Have you been wearing your glasses? Contacts, at the very least?”_

_Molly shrugs her off but during the night, her eyes will always wander to the two photo and wonders what that says about herself._

* * *

Her first hint that something is wrong, that something is not completely right, is the way Sherlock is when they have sex. He’s become more desperate, more savage in the way he takes her, as if trying to prove something, anything. It’s not as if Molly doesn’t enjoy it, she does, but there is something _different_ about the way his head drops down to the crook of her neck and the way his hips stutter into hers and the way he bites down on her neck when he orgasms, her name escaping his mouth through gritted teeth.

 

Her second hint is that Mycroft is nicer towards her. Tone more gentle, eyes softer, and if Molly had an older brother, or an older cousin, she thinks that this would be the expression they would use to soften the blow on something horrible. (Her mind goes into a frenzy until she tells herself to calm down. That everything is _fine_. _Everything is fine.)_

 

Her third and final hint is one day, when Sherlock comes back after canvassing and Molly is on the couch, telly on and mug of tea in her hand. She looks up as he enters and gives him a smile. He walks by her, eyes blank and she knows that he’s entering his mind palace. (Her throat and heart drop down to her stomach when she smells a spicy, erotic perfume hanging off his clothes. She gasps, her chest hurting and she foolishly leads herself into believing that everything is _still_ fine.)

 

(Everything, she comes to find out, is _not_ fine.)

* * *

_“Hi Molly. Tom again, just letting you know I’m going across the pond. We’re meeting with our sister firm in New York City. Did you want me to bring you something back? The Statue of Liberty perhaps? Give me a call when you can. I would love to talk to you before I leave. Talk soon.”_

_Message saved._

_(On her bedroom bureau, there is a small statue, green in color and holding a yellow fiery fake flame, leading wayward souls to safety.)_

* * *

He is above her, thrusting deeply, the headboard banging painfully against the wall, Molly staring up at him, hands gripping his forearms as he exerts himself, when she hears it. It’s muffled but she hears it. A sensual moan…one that didn’t come from her. She feels Sherlock freeze before he starts thrusting again, this time, losing any control he may have had before.

 

She frowns, “what…what was that?” She asks breathlessly.

 

“Nothing.” He answers, kissing her deeply, almost swallowing her whole and making her forget about everything.

 

They orgasm together, him groaning, she keening and he holds her to him tightly as she feels him go limp inside of her (he’s still holding her when he pulls out of her, hands still at her waist, gripping tightly, leaving bruises, _don’t leave me, don’t leave, don’t go._ It’s all so confusing and she doesn’t know how to act, she doesn’t know what to say, she doesn’t know what to do other than lay her head on his shoulder, fingers toying with his hair and try to convince herself that everything is fine.)

 

(There is a niggling thought in the back of her mind telling her that has heard that sound before and it leaves her feeling sick.)

* * *

Berlin is vibrant at night.

 

Molly walks along the sidewalks, licking her ice cream in the warm heat of summer and she smiles at the people who pass her by, talking in a language she doesn’t know.

 

(She thinks she could be happy here.)

* * *

Her stomach is rumbling with hunger, as she walks past expensive restaurants and the smell of food comes wafting out.

 

She’s looking around and then grabbing at her mobile, trying to figure out where she is and how she can get back home, when she feels something odd. It’s a tingling feeling in her spine, raising the hair on her body and signaling an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She turns around, looking for something (anything) out of ordinary when her eyes land on a couple in a restaurant.

 

The feeling in her stomach intensifies and she staggers back, grasping a lamppost. It’s almost like a car wreck, in that she can’t look away.

 

Sherlock is in the restaurant at a table for two with a beautiful woman (an oddly familiar beautiful woman) sitting across from him, lips stained a blood red and tight black dress painted on her body. Her nails are the same red color of her lips and Molly can see the way she traces her fingers on Sherlock’s arm and how Sherlock catches her wrist, pressing his fingers to her pulse. She sees the woman smile wickedly and the way the light hits, Molly can see Sherlock’s pupils dilate (with arousal. With desire.)

 

And maybe…maybe it’s a ruse. Maybe it’s a game. Just a game. A show for their target. Except one glance at the restaurant and she knows Marcus Kompany is nowhere in sight.

 

Molly feels her chest tighten, feels the world around her stop and all she can _hear_ , all she can _see_ is Sherlock. And the woman.

 

Her heart shudders. _Oh God. Oh God. How could I have been so…stupid._

 

The woman.

 

_The Woman_.

 

Irene Adler. Whom, Sherlock recognized by _not-her-face_. The woman, whom is supposed to be dead. The _moan_.

 

Molly lets out a cry and ignores the looks of people on the street as she stumbles and calls hoarsely for a cab to take her away. To take her _anywhere_. _Anywhere but here_.

 

(It all makes sense now. _Everything_ makes sense now.)

 

Once secure in the back of the cab, Molly throws the address at the driver and breathes deeply to try and stop the sobs from clawing out of her throat.

 

(She doesn’t succeed and driving through the streets of Berlin, Molly Hooper falls apart.)

* * *

_“Is that a phone?”_

_“It’s a camera phone.”_

_“And you’re x-raying it?”_

_“Yes. I am.”_

_“Whose phone is it?”_

_“A woman’s.”_

_“You’re girlfriend’s?”_

_“You think she’s my girlfriend because I’m x-raying her phone?”_

_“Well…we all do silly things.”_

* * *

Molly barges into the flat, gasping, her bag falling loudly against the floor.

 

She hears the sound of heels and sees Anthea, mobile at her side, staring at her.

 

“Where’s Mycroft?” Molly asks.

 

“Not here.”

 

“I want to leave. I shouldn’t have…this shouldn’t….he shouldn’t… _fuck_.” She curses and then she drops to the floor, back sliding against the door, arms resting against her knees. “I’m not like the rest of you. I…I…”

 

Anthea gives her a small sad smile and takes the spot on the floor next to her. “No.” She says, “You’re not. You’re better.”

 

“You _knew_.” Molly states.

 

“I did. We all did.”

 

“Right.” Molly says, tired of the lies, tired of the games. “I want to go _home_. I _need_ to go home.”

 

“What will you tell Sherlock?” Anthea asks.

 

“Nothing.” She says, her voice surprisingly calm. “Nothing that he won’t already _deduce_.” She leans against the door and gives a dry sob. “The saddest thing…the saddest thing is…everything I had, _have_ , I gave to that man. _Everything_.”

 

“My cousin,” Anthea starts slowly (and there is a part of her that knew, somehow just _knew_. Because Anthea is beautiful and brilliant and untouchable, so of course, she would _have_ to be a _Holmes_ ) “shows his emotions differently than everyone else. _You_ of all people know that.”

 

Molly nods, conceding this. “But _he_ should know that I’m _not_ different from everyone else. I’m normal. I’m one of the masses. I’m not as special as _he_ is. Or as _she_ is.”

 

( _Because there will be no one as special as you are, Molly,_ her father once said to her. _Sorry dad, but you were wrong_.)

 

They’re both silent, Molly rubbing her hands over her face. “I’m tired. I’m just…so _tired_ and I just…I want to go back _home_. That’s all.”

 

Anthea nods, “I’ll get everything ready.” She digs out her phone and types quickly. “You’ll be out within the hour and this will all be just a memory.”

 

Molly snorts and grabs her bag as she hefts herself off the floor. “Nothing with Sherlock is ever just a memory.”

 

“Doctor Hooper?” Anthea calls out, as Molly begins to leave to pack. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

 

_Me too. Me too._

* * *

She calls Mary before she boards the jet.

 

_“Where the fucking hell have you been?”_ Mary yells into the phone.

 

“It’s a long story.” Molly explains. “Are you in London?”

 

_“Of course I am. Where the fuck else would I be? Unlike you, I don’t disappear off the face of the bloody earth for eight months without a call, or text, or a bloody carrier pigeon! Where are you?”_

 

“I’ll be in London in a couple of days. I need…I need to do something.”

 

Mary is silent and then she snorts. “ _By something, I sincerely hope you mean someone, and by someone I sincerely hope you mean Tom.”_

 

“You’re incorrigble.”

 

_“And yet you love me.”_

 

“I do.” Molly says, her breath catching on a sob. “I really do.”

 

_“Molly?”_ Mary asks worriedly. “ _Molly? Are you alright?”_

 

“No.” She answers truthfully. “No, I’m not.”

* * *

“Hi Tom. It’s Molly. I’ve been…on an extended leave of absence. I’m…I’m going to be in Manchester this weekend and would love to see you. If the offer still stands. So…yeah, talk soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…yeah…I’m just…I’m going to…over there…on the other hand, YAY FOR SHERLOCK EPISODE!!! Did you all watch it? I did. I should also say that this is obviously and officially AU from Series 3. I’ll add the tags accordingly. And though Tom is mentioned in Series 3, we haven’t gotten enough of him, so I’m keeping him the way I’ve written him, which hopefully is okay because it’s so hard, especially when we’ve got nothing to go on. But so very exciting too! I’m rambling. I’ll stop.   
> I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this latest chapter! I’m continually blown away by your guys’ responses to this story. It’s just…it’s been amazing and wonderful and you all make me cry from the sheer support that you’ve all given me and you’ve all just been so wonderful and lovely. 
> 
> HUGE SHOUTOUT to everyone who has favored/kudos'd/bookmarked/reviewed/read/followed this story, i just...seriously, you're all amazing. THANK YOU!!!


	6. Part six

She’s been to Manchester a few times in her life. Most of the times it was with her dad. It’s exactly as she remembers it. She walks along familiar roads and familiar pubs, until she comes to a small café.

 

There is a man sitting at a table for two, the seat in front of him, empty. All Molly can see is his profile. His tall, lanky body too awkward for the chairs, his shoulders broad, his hair black and with a bit of curls, his skin smooth as porcelain.

 

(And even though she knows she shouldn’t, her breath catches anyways and she thinks of another tall lanky man with broad shoulders, black curly hair and porcelain skin. She wonders if he misses her. She wonders if he notices she’s gone at all.)

 

Molly walks in and stands by the door, the smell of coffee and cinnamon overwhelming her. She could leave. He hasn’t seen her yet; she could still walk out the door and away from him. She could call Anthea and ask for a ticket back to wherever they are (wherever he is.)

 

She doesn’t. Instead, she moves her legs forwards, apologizing as she jostles people out of the way. When she reaches the table, he’s standing up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He has a grin on his face (the same charming grin she remembers from so long ago) and his hands are by his sides, slightly trembling (she wonders, if she takes his pulse, what she would find. Would his pulse be racing? Thundering underneath her fingertips?) He leans forward and places a hesitant kiss on her cheek (she closes her eyes and tries to forget another hesitant kiss placed on her cheek during a Christmas that still brings back painful memories.)

 

“Hello Molly.” He says, his voice is deep but not as deep and not as baritone as she would have preferred.

 

She smiles anyways (and tries to forget about the man countries apart from her.) “Hello Tom.”

* * *

_“Oh, I knew it!” Mary yelps into the flat. “So, how’s this going to work? Are you going to Manchester every weekend? Is he coming to London? Are you meeting somewhere in the middle? Rugby, maybe?”_

_Molly snorts into her wine. “Mary, we’re not…this…it’s new.”_

_“Molls, you’ve liked this guy since you were a child. This is not new. This is…this is years in the making. This is way past being new.”_

_Maybe, but the last something that was years in the making ended up tearing her apart and destroying her. She feels bad and she knows she should feel worse about lying to Mary, John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Tom about where she’s been and what she’s been doing, but despite everything that happened, she still promised to carry his secret to the grave._

_Sherlock Holmes may not have promised her anything, but she promised him everything and that…that means something. To her at least._

_“What about you?” Molly asks her._

_“What about me?”_

_Molly shrugs, trying to imagine all the different pictures and scenarios in her mind before settling on a smile. “I know this man. You’d like him. I know you would.”_

_“Oh, Molly, please.”_

_“His name is John Watson.”_

* * *

Tom is wonderful.

 

He makes her laugh. He makes her smile. He’ll sometimes bring her an orchid (just one, always an orchid, never roses, because he knows she prefers orchids) whenever he’s in London. He’s smart and he never stops wanting to learn. He’s not disgusted by her job and in fact is always willing to listen to her as she laments about her day.

 

She meets his family (again and they still remember her as the quiet and shy girl from childhood) and they welcome her with open arms and warm smiles. They’re funny, sarcastic and a rowdy bunch. There’s _so_ many of them, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, nephews and nieces. Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming and when she feels like she can’t breathe, when she feels like she’s suffocating, somehow, he’s _always_ there, hand grasping hers and holding on protectively.

 

He gives her space when she’s busy and she doesn’t call when he’s in the middle of a case ( _a different type of case_ , she reminds herself, _but a case nonetheless_ ), but when everything is done and over with, he’ll come to London (or she’ll go to Manchester) and they’ll fall back into the same pattern of laughing and talking and kissing and learning each other’s bodies.

 

Tom is wonderful. Truly, he is.

 

(But she can never see herself giving him her entire heart. Partly because it’s with another man halfway around the world. But mostly, because even if said man halfway across the world, gave it back to her, it wouldn’t be whole. It’d be in shattered little pieces, almost impossible to put back together.)

* * *

_The first time Tom and John meet, it’s on a double date. Molly does her best not to smile smugly at Mary with her correct assumption that Mary and John would be perfect for one another._

_Tom is late, though they knew he would be. Her back is to the door and John is talking to her, regaling both she and Mary about an incident in the A &E, when he suddenly stops and pales. _

_Mary frowns and puts her hand on his forearm and Molly calls out his name. It’s not until a shadow falls across Molly’s chair, and a familiar hand is on her shoulder, that she realizes why John has paled._

_(She thinks she should have warned him beforehand.)_

_“John. This is Tom. Tom, this is John Watson. And you already know Mary.”_

_John, for his part, is shaken out of his reverie and he smiles (though not as wide) at Tom._

_A little while later, Tom gets up to get drinks and Mary nearly jumps out her chair, scrambling to help him, shooting Molly a knowing look._

_“I should have warned you.” She says to John when they’re alone, “I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be.” He says, his voice drawn. “There are…there are lots of tall blokes with black hair.” He shoots her a look and then shakes his head, a small grin playing on his lips. “Though now, it does make more sense, why Mary told me, you obviously have a type.” They’re both silent, Molly drumming her fingers on the table when John reaches over and grasps her fingers. “He seems like a nice bloke. He’s good, yeah? He treats you well? He…does he make you happy?”_

_Molly turns her head and sees Tom at the bar with Mary talking with a few other guys, friendly smile on his face. His eyes turn upwards and when he sees her staring, he winks at her, shooting her a beaming smile, so full of tenderness, it makes her chest burst with feeling. “Yeah…I really think he does.”_

_“Good.” John says, leaning back in his chair. “That’s good. You deserve it. To be happy, I mean.”_

_“You too.” Molly echoes the sentiment. “Mary is…Mary is wonderful and you are one lucky man, John Watson.”_

_“I am.” He agrees. “I truly am.”_

* * *

The months start to blur together for Molly. Each passing day a new one, making it easier for her to breathe.

 

She’ll often wonder how Sherlock is. How he’s doing. (In the darkest part of her mind, she wonders if he’s replaced her with another, with the Woman and she deludes herself into believing that she’s fine if he did. Because men like Sherlock Holmes don’t belong with women like Molly Hooper.)

 

(This is what she tells herself.)

* * *

Tom leaves his firm in Manchester and moves to a firm in the heart of London.

 

He moves in with Molly and they make a weekend of it. Moving his stuff into hers, repainting the walls, which leads to varnishing the cupboards, which leads to cleaning out closets and buying new things.

 

By the end of it, they collapse in bed, hands intertwining with each other until she doesn’t know where he begins and she ends. She turns her head, lips seeking out his and nibbling on his bottom lip. “Welcome home, Tom.”

* * *

_One day, Tom comes across an old clipping of Sherlock._

_He’s staring at it when she comes home, Thai in her hands. She puts the food down gently and stares at him, wondering when (if) he’s going to say something (anything.)_

_His thumb brushes against the grainy photo of Sherlock’s face and he looks up at her. “He’s important to you, isn’t he?”_

_She blinks at the use of present tense and she wonders just how transparent she is when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. She doesn’t lie when she answers him, finds that she can’t lie (won’t lie) to him. “Yes. He is.”_

_He nods, accepting the answer for what it is and then kisses her, mumbling against her lips that he loves her._

_“I love you too.”_

_(She only feels a little stab in her chest when she says the truth she’s known for quite some time now.)_

* * *

When they have sex, Tom likes going slowly. He likes drawing her orgasms out, until she’s digging her nails into his back, pleading and begging for _more, please, Tom, God, please._

 

He kisses and worships every inch of her and his fingertips trace _I love you’s_ on her skin. His grip hard but steady, anchoring her to him.

 

He's an attentive lover, aware of her needs but he’s always fun. He likes laughing and cracking jokes at the most inappropriate times and Molly can’t help but laugh loudly, innuendos echoing off the walls, as their laughs turn into moans and keens wails.

 

At the end, he always pulls her to him, wrapping himself around her, kissing the top of her head and asking her how her day was, as if he didn’t just give her multiple mind-blowing orgasms. (She’ll answer him truthfully. She always does.)

 

(Sometimes, when he’s sleeping, and she’s brushing hair from his face, she can’t help but compare Sherlock and Tom, in the darkest part of her mind, she imagines they’re one and the same.)

* * *

She’s at dinner with Mary and John when she sees a familiar face outside the window.

 

His blonde hair glints in the darkness, his eyes piercing and mocking and one side of his face has silver remnants of where her nails clawed him on that hot day in Madrid. He gives her a salute and winks at her, before walking back into the shadows.  

 

_But tell Sherlock dearest that Seb can’t wait to play and this time, his death won’t be fake._

 

She starts, hand clambering after her phone and she shoots off incoherent apologies as she stumbles off her chair and into the loo, where she slams the door shut and locks it. She fumbles with the number and gnaws at her thumb.

 

Anthea answers on the second ring. “ _Molly?”_

 

“Sebastian Moran is in London. I just…I just saw him.” She blurts out, her voice rising.

 

_“We know.”_ Anthea says, _“so are we.”_

 

Molly blinks. “What?”

 

_“We’re back in London.”_ She pauses and then adds, _“Sherlock is back in London.”_

 

(Molly hangs up the phone and slides down against the door, head pillowed on her knees. She breathes deeply and then stands up, squaring her shoulders and walking back to the table. She deflects their questions but her heart is still hammering inside her chest.)

 

_Sherlock Holmes is back in London_. (Molly should feel elated and she is, knowing that the lies will come to an end soon, but there’s also a part of her that feels dread in the pit of her stomach.)

 

(She was just learning how to get along with her life _without_ him.)

* * *

The night when she and Tom go home and Molly is already shedding her clothes as she walks into their room, she comes to a complete standstill when she sees the small velvet ring box on their bed.

 

She grabs the box with trembling hands and stares up at Tom as he walks in, slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of her reaction.

 

“I love you.” He tells her as he kneels before. “Molly Hooper, I’ve loved since we were children and my biggest regret in life was standing around and doing nothing about it. _I love you_. And if you can…I would love to…what I mean to say is…oh _bollocks_....”

 

She laughs through tears that are stinging her eyes and she throws her arms around him, her heart rattling and thundering in her chest. “Yes.” She whispers in his ear. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

 

She squeals when he picks her up and spins her around, their laughter echoing through their flat.

* * *

The next morning, just as dawn is breaking across the sky, Molly’s eyes open. She frowns and turns her head to Tom, who is sleeping soundly. She listens intently, closely to her flat. The hairs on her body rise, skin prickling and there is a tingling in her spine. She pulls herself gently from Tom’s arms, eyeing the ring on her finger, and pulls on her dressing robe.

 

She grabs the baseball bat on her way out of the room and shuts the door gently behind her. She walks slowly, carefully to the sitting area and jumps back, hands fumbling to catch the bat before it falls and trying to set her heartbeat back to normal. “Fuck.” She curses when she sees the tall figure occupying her sofa, lingering in the shadows of the flat.

 

She knows who it is, _of course_ she does. She flicks on the light and she bites back a gasp when she sees his face. One side is black and blue, his lip is busted and his left eye has a bruise. He looks like he’s just been in the fight of his life (and Molly has no doubt he probably was.) It doesn’t take long for instinct to take over and she’s flying to the kitchen, grabbing ice and bandages.

 

He doesn’t take them. Instead, he flinches away from her touch. She recoils back, as if slapped. When he meets her eyes, she wants to cry at the restrained emotion (anger, betrayal, hurt.) “How long have you been here?” She asks him, her voice hoarse and dry.  

 

His eyes flicker towards the ring on her finger and then to her robe, where in her haste to get ice and bandages, the strap across her waist has loosened, showing brief glimpses of bare skin. “Long enough.”

 

He gets up, his movements stiff and tense. “Sherlock,” she says (she’s ashamed to admit, there is a bit of pleading), “please, just let me…let me help you.” _Let me heal you._

 

“You’ve helped enough.” He snaps, his voice cold and hard.

 

And then he leaves out the front door, slamming it hard behind him.

 

Molly shudders, tears stinging her eyes and then she puts a hand to her mouth, crying out when the cool silver of her ring meets her lips.

 

(It’s how Tom finds her, curled into a ball on the sofa, hands around her knees, telly on, as pictures of “Sherlock Holmes Alive” flicker across her face.)

 

He holds her and murmurs sentiments in her ear and Molly cries harder because while men like Sherlock Holmes don’t belong with women like Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper doesn’t belong with men like Tom.

 

(Tom’s too good for her. He’s too pure. And she’ll ruin him.)

* * *

She tells Tom the truth. She owes him that at least. It’s the better part of the morning. She tells him about when she first met Sherlock, eight years ago, she tells him about when he came to her high out of his mind, she tells him about all the time between, she tells him about the fall and how she helped him (at least somewhat, that particular part isn’t her story to tell. It never will be) and how she didn’t take a leave of absence, at least not really.

 

She’s crying when she tells him about the extent of her relationship with Sherlock and when she saw him and Irene Adler in Berlin.

 

“And then I came back and you were- _are-_ you _are_ -e _verything_ I ever wanted. Everything I _need_ …” she sniffles and wipes at her face. “I understand…if you…if you don’t want to…if you want to take back…I get it…truly I do…you just…I need you to know…”

 

Tom looks at her, with a little bit of betrayal, a little bit of hurt, a little bit of pity and a little bit of pride, “do you love him?”

 

“I think…” she says softly, slowly, “that part of me will always love him. I can’t stop it. No matter how hard I try. There’s just...there’s _so_ much there.”

 

“Do you love me?”

 

“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate in her answer, her tears coming anew.

 

He walks towards her, leaning down and placing his forehead against hers, “Molly, _I love you_. I want to be with _you_. I want to marry _you_.”

 

And without knowing what else to do, Molly sobs and throws her arms around his neck.

 

(Her heart is breaking and _trying_ to piece together the shattered little pieces and Molly doesn’t know what to do with it.)

* * *

“I made him a promise.” She tells John softly. “I wanted to tell you. So many times, I wanted to tell you. To just…ease your pain…but I couldn’t because Moriarty had snipers on you and Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“I know.” John says stiffly, his knuckles bruised and cracked. “He told me.” He looks up at her, his eyes narrowing. “Those eight months you were gone…”

 

She nods and sighs. “He needed me.”

 

John nods, accepting the answer. “What about you?” He asks after a moment.

 

“What?”

 

“ _You_ said, _he_ said, _everyone_ said, snipers were on me, Greg and Mrs. Hudson. But what about you? _You_. The woman who has been by his side for eight _fucking_ years. _What about you?”_

 

Molly swallows hard, her chest rattling, and she blinks, her vision suddenly blurry. “I don’t count.” She says, her words familiar as they echo in the space between them. ( _Maybe_ , the darkest part of her mind tells her, _you never did.)_

 

_(You’re wrong you know. You do count. You’ve always counted. And I’ve always trusted you.)_

 

“I asked Mary to marry me.” John blurts out. “She said yes.” He sighs, rubs a hand over his face and cracks a smile at her, “she’s going to kill me. She wanted to tell you first.”

 

She laughs, the first genuine laugh since Sherlock re-entered her life and blew it to pieces. “Congratulations!”

 

They talk for a bit longer about everything and nothing and it almost, _almost_ seems normal.

* * *

“John asked me to marry him.” Mary blurts out as soon as she sees her.

 

Molly tries to act surprised, really she does. “Congratulations!”

 

Mary’s face goes blank. “He told you didn’t he? My God, that man is worse than an old woman.”

 

Molly laughs and holds up her hand, ring glittering in the light. “Looks like we’re both getting married.”

 

Mary shrieks loudly and Molly laughs and laughs until she starts crying.

* * *

Sherlock still comes into Bart’s. He still demands body parts. He still works for the Yard. John still accompanies him on cases.

 

And Molly…Molly is still there, always ( _always_ ) helping when needed.

 

Everything is back to normal. Back to how it used to be before Moriarty. Before the fall. Before the two years in exile.

 

(Somehow, this normal feels wrong.)

* * *

Mary and John’s wedding is beautiful. The sun is shining. Mary is radiant.

 

Molly cries.

 

Sherlock doesn’t stop staring at her, eyes boring into her until she fidgets and looks away, unable (unwilling) to be scrutinized.

 

(She wonders what he sees. Does he see the woman who loved, and still does, love him? Does he see a different woman? Does he see her strengths? Her weakness? Does he see her at all?)

* * *

As maid-of-honor and best man, they’re required to dance together.

 

So, they do.

 

They gravitate towards each other. Her hand finding his. Her other hand finding purchase on his shoulder. His arm around her waist, pulling her tightly, swaying to the song crooning from the speakers.

 

(It feels like they’ve been dancing together since they met those eight years ago. Maybe, they have.)

 

When they part, when she turns and leaves, her feet finding Tom as he sits and is talking to Greg, grabbing his hand and pulling him out to the floor, his mouth stretching into a familiar charming grin, she risks a glance at Sherlock and sees him still standing in the place she left him.

 

(He’s the saddest she’s ever seen him and she buries her head in Tom’s shoulder.)

 

_(You look sad. When you think no one can see you.)_

* * *

The day before her wedding, Mary is at her flat, going through last minute details.

 

When all is said and done, Mary sits next to Molly, grabbing her hand and squeezing it, her eyes seeking out hers. “Molly…” Mary trails off, unable to finish her sentence.

 

Molly gives her a smile and squeezes her hand back. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

 

Mary nods, slowly, hesitantly, and then leans down, until her head is resting on her shoulder, fingers still intertwined until Molly doesn’t know where she ends and Mary begins.

 

“I love you.” Mary breathes, “and I’ll always support you, no matter what. So, if you want to marry Tom, I will be right next to you. If you want to run off and join the circus, I will attend every single show. If you…” she takes a deep breath, “if you decide to call this wedding off and…I’ll support you. You know that right?”

 

Molly swallows the lump in her throat. “Always.”

 

“Always.”

* * *

The night before her wedding, Molly can’t sleep. Instead, she gets up and curls on the sofa, watching crap telly when she hears a knock on her door. She goes up and looks through her peephole, unchaining the locks and letting him in.

 

His black hair is wild as he shuts the door. His Belstaff coat billowing around him. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling, shaking.

 

“Sherlock?” She asks, his name tumbling from her lips.

 

It’s an instantaneous reaction. His hands reaching for her and pulling her close, lips searching hers out. He tastes the same. A little bit of nicotine and something else, something entirely _Sherlock._ His tongue enters her mouth, relearning the contours and every dip. His hands struggling with her dressing robe and she gasps, goosebumps erupting across her skin as his cold bare hands come in contact with her warm skin.

 

She feels and hears him moan into her mouth, holding onto her tightly, pressing her back against the wall and pressing his body close to hers, getting lost in the feel of her.

 

He grabs her by the back of her thighs and pulls her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he holds her up, his erection pressing into her.

 

Her eyes snap open and she wrenches her mouth away from his, panting heavily. His mouth trails over her jaw and neck, mouth burning a path over her body. “Sherlock.” She gasps. “Sherlock. Stop.” She pushes at his chest as she unwinds her legs from his waist, “ _Stop_.” She frees herself and creates distance between them. “Why are you here?” She asks, her voice trembling, shaking, just like his hands were.

 

He looks at her, and steps forward, he continues to step forward, until her back hits the wall again. He doesn’t kiss her; instead, he drops his head down to the crook of her neck (and she’s taken back to nights just like this, when they were in bed, bodies entwined together), his mouth ghosting over her pulse point. “Molly. Molly.” He murmurs. “Molly.”

 

“What do you want from me, Sherlock?” She begs, her voice pleading, unable to control her emotions. “What _more_ could you possibly want from me?”

 

He pulls his head away from her neck and looks at her, eyes wide and endless is their changing colors but most of all she sees how haunted they look, “why did you leave?”

 

She sucks in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling and instead of answering the question, she replies with one of her own. The question that has been plaguing her, _haunting_ her. “Did you sleep with her? Irene Adler. Did you sleep with her in Berlin?”

 

The way he drops his head and the way silence reigns is all the answer she needs. She feels her heart shatter, she feels the way her throat closes up and she doesn’t realize how in denial she was about it until _this very moment_ , with the truth slapping her in the face. She swallows hard and ignores the burning sensation in her throat. “That’s why I left.” She says, her voice surprisingly calm, despite the turmoil inside of her. “Because I stopped counting to you.” (She isn’t looking at him, instead, she’s staring at the floor and she misses the way his head snaps up. She misses the way his eyes narrow in disbelief. She misses the way his eyes hollow and she misses the way regret and sorrow line his face. Molly Hooper misses everything.)

 

(But this is it, this is the crux of the matter, the truth she’s always known but has never wanted to acknowledge. She is there when he needs her, she is there because she is his, _always_ , she is there because she is the one who saved him and who continued to save him, she is the one who _counted_ …until she didn’t anymore.)

 

“You should leave.”

 

He takes a deep breath, hands still trembling at his side, eyes still wide and through her blurred vision, she sees a little bit of pleading, a little bit of desperation. “Tom-”

 

“Don’t.” Molly snaps, “don’t start. I don’t…I don’t care. Whatever you have to say about him, I don’t care, because he’s already a better man than you.” She regrets the words as soon as they fly out of her mouth.

 

He looks shocked, hurt, betrayed by her words and she wants to take them back, she wants to tell him that she’s _sorry_ , that she’s _so sorry_ that _this is all fucked up_ , but she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything. Finds that she _can’t_ say anything.

 

“He’ll make you happy.” Sherlock says, not heeding her previous warning. “And you, Molly Hooper,” his voice wrought with unrestrained emotion, far more than she has ever witnessed in the eight years she’s known him, “deserve to be with someone who will make you happy.”

 

He walks to her door and looks back at her, giving her one last glance, one last chance to say something (anything.)

 

She doesn’t and he leaves.

 

(On the night before her wedding, Molly Hooper can’t sleep. So, instead, she slumps to the floor and weeps, sobs wracking her body so intensely, she feels like vomiting.)

 

(Sometimes, she wishes she never met Sherlock Holmes.)

* * *

The wedding is beautiful. The reception even more so and as Tom takes her by the hand, spinning her out across the dance floor, and pulling her towards him, she smiles.

 

Her eyes search over his shoulders and she smiles at Mary and John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Her eyes turn left and she catches sight of Sherlock. Her breath hitches and she buries her face in Tom’s shoulder.

 

(He’s still the saddest she’s ever seen him.)

* * *

_The hospital is quiet, but it always is quiet in the morgue. No one but dead bodies, waiting to be collected by loved ones, to bear witness to their conversation._

_It’s intricate and relies heavily on everything happening according to time._ The devil, _she thinks,_ isn’t just in the details, it’s in minutes and seconds. _(If they don’t do this right, if_ she _doesn’t do this right, then he dies. It’s as simple and convoluted as that.)_

_Her knees become weaker and she leans against the metal slab (where in hours, Sherlock will be placed) to hold her up, for fear of falling._

_By the end of his explanation, he looks at her, his breath puffing from his lips, his Belstaff open and hanging loosely from his frame. His eyes are wide, haunting in the way they stare at her, imploring her to say something, anything. “Sherlock…” she says and trails off, sucking in a deep breath and returning his stare. “Do you…you do realize what you’re asking me to do. You’re asking me to kill you.”_

_He’s silent, fingers moving as if aching to reach out for something (someone) and he tells her in a quiet but strong voice, “there’s no one else I trust, Molly.”_

_She closes her eyes, images flashing of everything to come but even her mind can’t conjure or imagine the tragedy that will become her and them. And because she will do anything for this man, because she will undoubtedly follow him into the deepest pit of hell where he will carve out her heart and burn it and because he asked, Molly lets out a deep breath and opens her eyes. Brown meeting a storm of green-blue, she nods, “okay.”_

* * *

It starts, like all things in Molly Hooper’s life, bound to a tragedy waiting to unfold, with a fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough. You have put so much faith and stock in this story. You have followed it from beginning to end and words cannot express how deeply thankful I am. Your words of encouragement have been amazing and I just…you’re all amazing and wonderful. Thank you all so much!
> 
>  
> 
> This being said, Before pitchforks get thrown at me, I’ve had this ending written before I even had the first chapter written. And I wanted to change it. I really did. I wanted to make this a happily ever after for Sherlock and Molly, but I just…I really liked my Tom. And as we don’t know anything yet about Tom in show, if he’s nice and wonderful and loves Molly full-heartedly, then I think I’ll be okay. I mean, I ship Sherlolly like hardcore. They’re my babies, but I just really really want Molly to be happy. And also, I wanted to give this a shot, you know, where I write something where Sherlock and Molly don’t end up together. Which, let me tell you, it was the hardest thing in my fucking life to do. Seriously, it burned and rest assured that I probably will continue to put them through angsty rides but give them closure. Because oh my God, it’s like “my babies, I’m so sorry!”
> 
> But seriously, thank you thank you thank you a million and one times. You are all amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my very very very angsty fic. Like WHOA, angst, that I was talking about on tumblr. There will be a total, of, I believe six chapters. Maybe seven, but I’m aiming for six because, it’s a good number, yeah? LOL. Seriously though, happy holidays everyone and I apologize profusely if this story makes you sad! It’s just…the angst…it calls to me. Anyways, I sincerely hope you all enjoyed it! Also...see what i did there? I introduced Tom at the beginning. It's just...this will be angsty. I'm so excited for you guys to read it! Again, thank you all so much. You're all amazing!


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